


veni (et vidi et vici)

by quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Differences, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Concubine Dirk, Concubine Hal, Dirty Talk, Emperor Dave, Gladiator Bro, Group Sex, It's a foursome I can't tag all this bullshit god, Latin, M/M, Mindless self-indulgence, Non-explicit References to Violence, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalances, Roman Decadence, Strong Language, The Bromans were here for a good time not a long time, ancient rome au, ergo, implied sexual slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique
Summary: He was conquered and conquered in turn, he saw, and- most importantly, he came.





	veni (et vidi et vici)

**Author's Note:**

> From my works for the 2019 Stridercest Zine! Found here: https://gumroad.com/l/stridercestzine  
> It's free, and so you can go on and read it, but any donations would be appreciated and will go to the charity RAICES! You can read more about it at the link above and at their website (https://www.raicestexas.org).

Ambrose stands panting over the corpse. Grit clings uncomfortably to his skin, and he is hyperaware of the ridges in the hilt of his sword, his hand gripping it too tightly. The roar of the arena around him is near-deafening. Intent on finishing the rest of the charade, he lifts his bloody sword to the sky, and smiles- savage like they expect, though they can’t see it. No one is close enough for that. He leaves the body behind, striding towards the exit.

Snippets of conversation are all he manages to catch as he’s hustled inside, his sword taken and someone already plucking at the fastenings to the uncomfortable armor he’s worn for this fight. It isn’t enough to truly protect against a killing blow, but it certainly could blunt cuts into bruises. And it has proved serviceable in the past. Still, Ambrose lets out a sigh of relief once the greaves and bracers have been stripped off, once the metal of the breastplate is no longer weighing at his chest.

A spill of Latin into his left ear, and Ambrose fails to answer quickly enough, because the overseer repeats in his own native tongue, “They will clean you- the Emperor calls you. You fought well. Mind your mouth. Behave, or I’ll have your balls.”

Charming.

He does not grimace; this may be the highest honor that can be bestowed on a fighter here, but there is a nasty bruise on the small of his back, and stinging cuts along his arms. The Emperor is revered nearly as a god in Rome, and to Ambrose this is close to blasphemy. He has long since left his own gods behind- all but one, and that, he carries in his very soul for all the good that it has done. But he must be grateful. He is alive, after all. And apparently gaining the favour of the man who rules the place that took his home. Or most of it.

He allows them to touch him, to rub stinging ointments into his cuts and a deeply cooling salve on his back. He allows them to scrub the sand off his body, then rub oils into his skin until it is soft and gleaming. He even sits silently through the tense process of being shaved, deeply uncomfortable with someone else holding such a sharp blade to his face and neck. All the grooming seems to take an eternity, though Ambrose will admit that the hot water of the baths- clean, and devoid of any other gladiators- are a luxury he is always happy to indulge in.

Finally, he is escorted out, scented, soft, and bare except for the simple drape of white fabric across his chest and around his waist. The wool itches and sticks to his skin. Indifferent to the men accompanying him, he instead observes the frescoes decorating the walls of the sprawling complex that makes up the imperial palace. Ambrose has always thought the building elegant but overly extravagant, though the rumors of what occurs in the walls often say far worse. They are entertaining at least, but he rarely puts much stock in them.

Out of habit, he keeps careful track of the turns they make; he can find his way out, but only back to the Coliseum for all the good that it would do. Escape is less a thought to be entertained than a reflex. Three rights, four lefts, and a long, curving corridor later, Ambrose is brought before an intricately carved wooden door flanked by two guards. He recognizes some of the depictions- to the upper left is the bearded, scowling face of their thunder god, to the upper right is Mars. He wonders if he ought to spare a prayer to him; Mars is one of the few deities that he had heard of before coming here, and a more familiar one after.

The door opens before he can dedicate any more thought to the matter. He’s herded into a luxurious room containing several exotic-looking plants, more frescoes and paintings, and carved busts looking on, their lips forever silent. Typical Roman decadence, with little substance beneath it. There are more guards inside, and lounging on the couch is the Emperor himself. Ambrose nearly does not notice him; but for the deep, rich purple and more intricate styling of his toga there is very little to mark his kingship, aside from how the guards are flanked in a loose crescent around him.

He is tall, but not broad. Muscled, but not lean or lithe- but that means little, for even the Emperor ought to be able to fight. Though this one does not look like he would last long. His hair is a fine, pale gold, light enough to be nearly white, but his eyes are deep, rich red. He has heard that the prince shares his coloring. They both take after their mother. Their pale hair is highly unusual among Romans; it would be more at home among his own people, aside from the eyes. Ambrose wonders what his hands look like, since that would tell him a great deal more. Where the callouses lie, the splay of his fingers.

The Emperor murmurs something in Latin to the guard closest to him, but it is too soft for Ambrose to hear from his position at the door. The meaning becomes clear when the guard gives him a dubious look, before gesturing for the rest of his ilk to follow him. Ill-advised. Ambrose neatly steps aside as they file through the door. This does not bode particularly well for the Emperor’s intelligence, despite his admittedly appealing looks. But on a second glance, there is very little convenient and sharp enough to use as a weapon nearby. Ambrose would have to crush him like a grape with the heavy marble tabletop, smother him with a cushion or brain him with a bust. None of these seem feasible. Nor does it provide any satisfaction, however fleeting, to imagine it.

“You have proven yourself a true warrior in my Coliseum,” the Emperor says, and Ambrose is shocked to hear the words of his own mother tongue. They clearly sit unfamiliar in the man’s mouth, but it is an effort he did not expect. “No- do not look so shocked. I know you must have expected Latin, and I assure you that it is easier for me, but my mother wished me to know the language of her people.”

So the rumours concerning his parentage are true. It does not go much towards providing a sense of kinship, but it is a piece neatly slotting into a puzzle.

“She did a good job teaching you,” Ambrose answers easily.

“Of course she did. But, as I was saying. True warrior, bathed in the blood of a thousand enemies, won a thousand battles.”

“I suspect it is closer to forty, though I wouldn’t count the episodes with the beasts as battles,” he interjects, before the Emperor can continue. If the guards were there, Ambrose suspects that their breath would have caught in their throats for a second. No one interrupts the emperor, after all. And yet, it does not yield so much as the bat of an eyelash.

“Nor would I, but I can exaggerate if I want. And the point is, before you decide to interrupt me again, that _I’ve_ decided to reward you.” He looks terribly sure of himself with that statement, even though his face doesn’t give away too much. It’s all in the eyes.

“Oh, excellent. I was hoping for twelve enormous, fire-breathing lizards to sacrifice to a mountain god,” Ambrose says, his face entirely straight.

“Tragically, that’s not what I had in mind. Another day.” The Emperor recovers nicely from that, though the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement. Damn. Reluctantly, Ambrose finds himself enjoying the conversation. “However, I assumed that you might want to indulge in a select few physical comforts.”

“They do feed me,” he answers. Ambrose does know what the man is actually alluding to, but he elects to continue their little game instead. “But if you were to provide unrestricted access to the best baths around, I certainly would not protest it.”

A smile flickers, in, then out, of existence on the Emperor’s lips. It does not strike Ambrose as conniving, but fond. “That sounds terribly familiar,” is all he says, shaking his head slightly. “And I will consider it, even if the pleasures of the flesh were closer to what I had in mind.”

“I’m not certain that I enjoy the idea of fucking some poor slave girl, no matter how pretty she might be,” he answers blandly. It does not do much to disguise the vulgarity, but Ambrose has technically been showing disrespect since he stepped into the room.

“Good, because that’s not what I was going to offer.”

Ambrose reluctantly admits that he’s taken aback by this.

“I hear your tastes run differently, in any event,” the Emperor continues, blithe. “Not to say that I know what they are exactly, but broadly speaking.” He makes a vague, and un-kingly gesture with one hand.

Ambrose blinks. “So you’re offering…?”

“The prospect of a very fun night, and more to come if they take a liking to you.”

“Not if you take a liking to me?”

“I already know how much I like you, and there’s not much you can do to change that,” he says. His tone is amicable enough, though it gives nothing away. Ambrose can only assume that he’s favoured given that he is here to receive a reward- and by all means, this makes sense. Grudgingly, he must admit that the Emperor has no small talent for dissemblance.

“That could be taken as a terribly ominous statement,” Ambrose says. Or a terribly foolish one- but that, he does not say aloud.

“Really? I always thought my cousin had inherited the flair for doom. She was considered, once, as a candidate for the Vestals, but I never thought she would be a good fit. As is, she has consigned herself to a temple and the company of dead sheep and smoke.”

Ambrose remains silent; there is not much he can say to that given how little he knows of the Emperor’s actual family. Or, how little gossip there seems to be about anyone other than the Emperor and Crown Prince.

“No need to try and hide it. It _does_ sound like a miserable fucking existence, doesn’t it? She was never squeamish- and nor am I- but the whole entrails thing, as a concept, isn’t that appealing to me. The gods are just as well able to send signs and portents in dreams, and the chance of misinterpretation because of an errant blood spatter or whatever seems like a lot less.” Ambrose could swear that he nearly rolls his eyes, but the Emperor’s face is arranged into a slight moue of distaste. It makes him look much younger. Softer, somehow.

“You- have a lot of opinions on the matter,” Ambrose manages. “My people have soothsayers, too. Though we would rather eat the sheep than assume it is a sign from the gods, for the most part- the exception being dire circumstances, you understand.”

“Oh. Well, yes. But- talking about Rosa is not while we’re here. And it’s definitely not anything particularly arousing,” the Emperor says, swinging the conversation back around quickly enough that Ambrose is left reeling. “So. Another topic, as we walk to a sight that ought to be arousing.”

“Ought to be?”

“There’s no accounting for poor taste,” the Emperor says, prim. But he stands in an easy, graceful motion, gesturing for Ambrose to follow him. Instead of leaving, he turns and ventures further into the room. He opens a door that Ambrose had assumed was a servant’s entrance, or a bathing room, and steps through. Instead of either of those things, it leads into yet another hallway (and how many corridors does one building need to have?). The décor here is much simpler; the walls painted an inviting pale blue and edged in white and gold detailing.

“I don’t actually know what this was originally meant to be,” the Emperor continues to chatter on. Ambrose has quickly grown accustomed to it; he doesn’t think that silence suits the other man very well. “But for as long as recent memory extends, it’s been used to house royalty’s more pleasurable distractions.”

“You don’t need to worry about innuendo with me,” Ambrose comments. “I’ve heard worse in the pits.”

“You still understood what I meant,” he answers, waspishly. Ambrose has clearly touched a nerve, and he has to rein in most of the desire to keep prodding at it.

“I did,” he says. He gentles his voice to make it as soothing as he can manage- which is a valiant, but mostly futile attempt. “And I’d never think to accuse a Roman of being a prude.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean? No- don’t answer that. I already know.” Ambrose closes his mouth again, allowing himself an amused smile. The Emperor comes to a halt in front of yet another door, though the hallway stretches out longer before them. Ambrose takes a moment to admire the way his toga dips low in the back, exposing the long line of his spine. There are faint freckles dotted along it, though Ambrose cannot imagine that he gets much sun.

The Emperor steps into the room, and Ambrose follows closely behind. If he reached out, he could easily grab a handful of the fine, purple cloth. He could make the Emperor himself stumble and fall, or he could easily yank the garment off entirely. The latter option shouldn’t be as enticing as it is. Ambrose keeps his hands firmly at his sides, instead scanning the room.

It is more relaxed than the other one; there are no guards here, for one, and a light breeze disturbs the gauzy curtains hung over a large window to the far left. It reveals a glimpse of green, and the soft sound of running water- a courtyard, perhaps with a fountain. No doubt enclosed, but the damn maze of the palace means that this could be overlooking a river for all Ambrose knows. It likely isn’t- that would be too much of a security risk. The room itself is much less sparsely furnished. There is a couch and a table laden with some fruit and wine, a few chairs tucked away into corners near it. A few intricate woodcarvings sit on the table, and Ambrose inspects one with some interest. A snake, with the scales almost lovingly rendered. Whoever made it is not unskilled, but they must have a lot of time on their hands. The rest of the room contains a bookshelf, crammed with texts, and a desk near the window that’s equally cluttered with papers. And, of course, the large bed that’s situated opposite the desk, overflowing with luxurious looking sheets and far too many pillows to be practical.

But they are not the only people in the room.

There are two slender youths- and Ambrose only calls them this because they look to be about twenty, not young, but he has over a decade on them- on the bed. One is reading, the other staring up at the ceiling with a vaguely irritated expression. He has his fingers curled loosely around the other’s wrist. The skin there is curiously red, and Ambrose realizes with a start that his nails are digging into it.

"Et ubi est Princeps?" the Emperor asks in lieu of any other greeting, though the two in the room do not bat an eye at it. Latin, of course, and Ambrose takes care not to wrinkle his nose at the soft vowels of the language. It is still foreign to his ears, though he can make out most the meaning of what is said.

"Ipse suus dormientes. Lassata est.” The one not reading answers this, barely turning his head to look at them. His expression is distant, bored, but his posture gives away his interest. His eyes are too keen as they scan him over. He is paler than the Emperor; he must see even less sun, and there isn’t much of the same lithe muscle on him at all. Delicate, with sharp features. He’s nude, Ambrose notices belatedly. Roman garments can be difficult to distinguish from bedsheets, and these are just barely gathered around his waist.

“Vos scitis quomodo haec ire."

"Accepit in nobis, ut nos velis manere perpetua pro hoc."

"Boni pueri. Nunc, sit bonum, ut meus ventus barbarus. Ille meruit alio praemium."

"Sic, habeo. Nunc, eu lectus,”[1] Ambrose breaks in. It is the first Latin he’s spoken in their presence, and it’s interesting that the Emperor doesn’t look half as amused as his- concubines? Whores? It seems an ugly word, but the truth is rarely pretty.

The one reading slips a piece of paper into his book to mark his place, and sets it down with deliberate care. Ambrose notices that he rubs slightly at his wrist, the movement subtle. He is lovely in his own way, though lovely is too tame a word for the pair as a whole. Where one is sharp in his insouciance, the other wears it casually. Not a point of pride, just a facet of his personality. His eyes are a startling color- a few shades more vivid than Ambrose’s own. There are more freckles on his skin, though it is a healthy golden color- where he finds time to spend outdoors, Ambrose isn’t entirely sure.

“We’re already on the bed,” he points out, smoothly.

“And don’t think to order us around just yet. We at least need to be introduced properly,” the other chimes in, a cat’s smile on his face.

“Go on, then,” Ambrose prompts. He raises an eyebrow, deliberately insolent. It has the desired effect; he can almost see the annoyance spark in this one’s dark eyes. They are nearly tinged red, perhaps due to the light. Perhaps not.

“On a similar vein, you can call me Hal,” he finally says, dismissive. It’s almost cute, how he’s trying to pretend that Ambrose hasn’t gotten under his skin.

“I’m Dirk,” the other answers simply. He achieves indifference with a lot more ease than his companion. “And we are, presumably, your reward.”

“I gathered as much, even if the details haven’t been explicitly given.” Ambrose tells him. In turn, he fixes his eyes on the Emperor, expectant.

“Fine, fine. You’re smart, I don’t think I need to spell it all out for you,” the man grumbles, crossing his arms. “But the short of it is that you get a night with us.”

“And the long of it?”

“I’m hardly going to contribute any ideas of debauchery now- that’s all up to you. Of course, I won’t be leaving either.”

Admittedly, Ambrose hadn’t expected him to go. But it sends a different kind of thrill down his spine to know that the other man will be staying. Watching. He just nods.

“You can start,” he suggests to the two on the bed. “Tease each other, have some fun while we watch.”

No protest is offered from any of the involved parties, and Ambrose perches himself on the arm of the couch. Other than the obvious differences, there is a surprisingly amount of similarity between them. He watches, amused, as they whisper quietly to one another- clearly trying to decide what to do. His lip quirks up as he notices Dirk roll his eyes subtly; it’s an unexpectedly immature gesture.

“Are they twins?” he asks the Emperor quietly, though without much other sound, the question is heard by the room as a whole.

“No,” Hal says, shortly. Ambrose raises an eyebrow at the sharpness in his voice; it is not teasing, but angry. Sincerely so. Hal wraps his fingers around Dirk’s wrist, yanking him back down onto the bed for now. They kiss with the practice of long-time lovers, and the theatricality of those who enjoy being watched.

It’s clear that the Emperor is providing a very intent audience, his eyes trained on them, even as he moves to the couch. Ambrose cannot fault him for that focus; it’s terribly enticing how well they fit and how smoothly they move together. But he finds himself studying the other man more. The Emperor seems strangely at ease in his presence- though he has been nothing of what Ambrose had expected. Not smug, nor arrogant, nor the swaggering conqueror motivated only by greed and a love of war. To be sure, he is guarded, but trusting to the point of naivete, less eager to show off his prizes and more interested in Ambrose’s enjoyment of them.

He watches as the man pours himself a drink.

“Aren’t you going to join them?” the Emperor drawls out, now settled comfortably across the sofa and sipping from a goblet that stains his lips a deep red. This jolts him out of his thoughts. Ambrose hums, casting a glance back to where the two are occupying the bed in a lazy sprawl of limbs, a matched set of pale, freckled arms and legs and golden hair; slow, seductive rolls of their hips against each other, and moans that straddle performance and genuine enjoyment. Dirk, with amber eyes a few shades brighter than his own, glances over at his Emperor and lets his head fall back to expose the long, slim column of his neck, perfect for sucking bruises into. Hal, all sharp-edged smiles and wicked wonderment, smirks at them both as he sinks his teeth right into that skin, hard enough to draw blood. His mouth gleams with it as he pulls away, licks his teeth clean. He can hear the hiss of Dirk’s breath in response, and the way it melds into a shaky moan afterwards.

“Not yet,” Ambrose answers, leaning against the back of the couch. “They want to put on a show, it seems- it’d be criminal to interrupt that, and I’m sure you agree.”

“You’re very sure of yourself,” he comments.

“Should I not be? I _did_ just get offered a personal reward by the Emperor himself, for an excellent show.”

“Most would not call a fight where their lives are at stake a _show_.”

“Wouldn’t you? I prefer to call it what it is, and what it is, is entertainment.”

“Personally,” the Emperor says with a grin, “I prefer the theatre.”

“As opposed to a live show like this? The rumours don’t do Rome justice, then,” Ambrose remarks. He reaches over the couch to grab a handful of grapes, deliberately brushing against the other man as he does. He is unsure what to make of the fact that the Emperor does not tense, nor attempt to move closer. He does not move at all, but to reach up and pull off a grape from the bunch. Ambrose watches his lips close around the fruit with interest.

“Is this not enough debauchery for you?” he asks, with an eyebrow raised and a smirk on his face that suggests that he knows precisely where Ambrose’s gaze was lingering.

“It is a satisfactory level,” Ambrose answers, indifferent. “But I could concoct several ways in which to make it much better.”

“It _is_ your reward,” the Emperor says. He waves a hand dismissively, though he does not look away from where the two on the bed are slowly rutting against each other now. The scant amount of silks that had been preserving Dirk’s modesty have been discarded to the floor. “So go on. Tell me.”

“How very generous, _Imperator Augustus_ ,” Ambrose slips into Latin here, the more formal title that he has heard whispered. The letters are still too soft in his mouth. The title seems to take him by surprise.

“You may call me-,” here, the Emperor pauses, thinking it over. “David. If you wish. Such formalities are not wholly necessary here.”

David. Ambrose considers it for a moment; it is not a particularly _Roman_ name, as far as those things go, but he thinks it better not to question it. And from the Emperor’s tone, he doubts that it is anything close to his given name. Of course, he has heard that the Emperor has some barbarian blood in him by way of his mother- apparently this causes him endless grief with what passes for the Senate, but perhaps it could be a call to his roots.

“Have you given him one name of the list to call you by?” Hal interjects from the bed, his voice projecting across the room. Ambrose had not realized that the two were paying quite such close attention to them.

“Is it Biggus Dickus?” Dirk asks. Ambrose suspects that his tone is meant to be innocent, but the amusement running through it does not help. His mouth twitches up in a slight smile when he registers the joke, though David looks confused. It is an endearing expression, surprisingly enough.

“No? Why would it be that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ambrose tells him firmly.

“And my fun, it has been ruined,” Dirk sighs, melodramatic. He does not have much time to dwell on the loss, though; Hal is quick to nudge him towards the edge of the bed. It is almost brotherly, the way he nearly shoves Dirk off the surface entirely. Hm. Perhaps the mark for debauchery has not been set as low as he suspected.

“That is perfectly acceptable,” Hal tells him. “My fun is only just beginning. Kneel down, will you?”

David leans forward ever so slightly as Dirk complies. He smooths his hands up Hal’s legs, the very tips of his fingers just ghosting at the jut of his hipbones.

“Do you watch them like this often?” Ambrose asks, conversational. He moves to settle himself down on the couch properly, allowing their shoulders to touch.

“Dirk does not often let Hal have his mouth,” is the answer. “But I can assure you that he is _extremely_ talented with it. Watch, you’ll see. And I am sure he would not say no to doing the same to you.”

‘The same’ does look very appealing. They both watch with interest as Dirk parts his lips, Hal simply resting the flushed head of his cock against them. Dirk’s pink tongue darts out to lick at it, the other hissing out a breath as he grabs a fistful of blonde locks. Ambrose can see Dirk wince slightly, even from here, but he does not complain as Hal pushes in, and in, all the way until Dirk’s nose is firmly pressed to his pelvis, lips stretched wide open, and a slight bulge visible in his throat.

“He likes to tease,” David says, conspiratorial. “But Hal’s impatient with him- very wilful, in general, actually.”

Ambrose reaches down, palming at himself lazily. The simple fabric of the toga he had been offered does nothing to hide his stiffening cock. “And is he impatient with you?”

A ghost of a smile. “Sometimes.”

Not an outright denial. Ambrose just hums, returning his gaze to the show playing out before them. Hal has moved on to fucking his throat, his own head tipped back in ecstasy as his hips move in a quick, deep pace. There are tears gathering at the corners of Dirk’s eyes, his lips pink with use and a becoming flush on his face. His cheeks hollow occasionally as he sucks, and Hal’s reaction is an equally enchanting groan.

Ambrose reaches over, neatly pulling David into his lap. And drawing out a startled squawk from him- undignified, and amusing enough that Ambrose has to work to stifle a snort.

For the first time, it looks like the Emperor is lost for words. It suits him surprisingly well, despite the hush that has fallen across the room.

“You said an enjoyable night, and you also said that you’d made up your mind about me,” he murmurs into the other man’s ear, his voice pitched low. “And there’s no need to be aloof here. I won’t brag about the conquest.”

“Go on,” Ambrose thinks that it’s Dirk who chimes in from the hoarse note in his voice, his eyes hooded.

“Sometimes he needs a little coaxing,” Hal offers up. They haven’t stopped moving, but his thrusts have slowed to lazy rolls of their hips. “The pretense falls away almost immediately.”

Hal looks over to Dirk, and some silent communication must pass between the two of them, since they’re moving apart.

“Come to bed,” Dirk says, managing to sound enticing despite the neutrality on his face. But there is a touch of sincere warmth there, and not enough time for Ambrose to wonder at it since David is already moving over, slipping out of his arms.

There is, however, enough time for him to admire the sight of Hal pulling him down onto his bed and capturing his lips in a hungry kiss, while Dirk trails his mouth down the line of his neck, across his collarbone. His deft fingers are already making quick work of David’s toga, and he even winks at Ambrose when their eyes meet.

Ambrose takes his sweet time ambling over, shedding his own clothes with relative ease. The knots had been simple, but he still despises Roman clothing. A pair of trousers would be preferable any day. Deliberately, Dirk rakes his blunt nails down the arch of David’s back, right down to the soft curve of his ass. David’s answering groan isn’t nearly muffled enough by Hal’s kiss, but even if it were, the way his hips cant forward instinctively gives it all away.

Dirk gives him a smirk over David’s shoulder, an expression that can only read as mischievous.

“Would you like to watch us with him?” he asks. Above him, Hal pulls away from the Emperor’s mouth, leaving his lips pink and attractively kiss-swollen as he gasps for breath. Hal’s wine-red eyes catch Ambrose’s gaze as he sinks his teeth neatly into David’s shoulder, eliciting a choked-off moan.

He wants to say yes. It would be a sight to behold, watching these two drown the Emperor in pleasure, making him fall apart and beg for more. He has no doubt that they could do it. But instead, Ambrose shakes his head. He’s at the edge of the bed now, and he leans forward to press himself to David’s back, his lips finding the soft, vulnerable skin at the nape of his neck. Pale gold hair tickles at his nose when he wraps one arm around the other man’s torso.

“No,” he answers even though it is redundant. “I want to fuck him.”

“Everyone does,” Hal says, laughing like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “He’s younger and a fair sight prettier than the rest. Not that I knew the rest personally, but the coins and statues don’t exactly make them look good. And they’re _supposed_ to make them look good.”

“They want him so much,” Dirk joins in. He raises an eyebrow meaningfully, and- well. Ambrose is more than happy to join in this game. “But it’s not like we can blame them for that.”

“Certainly not. Even from a distance, I could tell just how pretty he was. Too pretty for a Roman.”

“And you’re- too damn attractive for a barbarian,” David grumbles, but it’s half-hearted at best. His voice is breathy, and the flush slowly crawling down to his chest gives away the untruth of his words. Ambrose just grins, nipping at the juts of bone.

“A very strange way to say ‘yes, Ambrose, I want your cock in my ass’,” he says. David splutters, and Ambrose can imagine the pout tugging his lips down.

“I can get him ready for you,” Hal suggests. “Dirk-?”

“On it,” the other youth answers, disentangling himself from David with surprising ease, despite the man’s protests. He doesn’t go far, just leans over the edge of the bed to the little table next to it. There are freckles down the backs of his thighs, too. With some amusement, Ambrose notices that both David and Hal are staring at his ass. Even so, Ambrose is the only one who reaches over to grab it roughly, a low hum in his chest as he squeezes.

“If there ever was a god’s blessing upon him, that would be it,” Hal says. “I couldn’t say what god, admittedly, but there’s so many minor deities around that there has to be one dedicated solely to a plush fucking ass. Or plush ass for the fucking. Or both.”

“The inverse of Priapus, or- whatever the Roman one’s called.”

“Mutunus Tutunus,” David adds, distractedly. “But Cupid might be fine.”

“What a name,” Ambrose mutters. He moves his hand when Dirk finally straightens up, a small pot nestled in the palm of his hand.

“It was under the bed,” he says to Hal, irritated. “Why do you always put it under the bed?”

“Because it won’t spill. I’ve saved your life by putting it under there, and this is the thanks I get?” Hal reaches over to take it anyway, though Dirk remains on that side of the bed. A bit too far away for Ambrose’s liking. “ _Augustus_ , get on your hands and knees. It’s his favorite,” he adds to Ambrose.

Ambrose just presses one last kiss between David’s shoulderblades, before he moves to lay next to Dirk on the other half of the bed.

“I was led to believe that you were good with your mouth,” he says, half-turning to lean over the other and steal a kiss. Dirk’s mouth opens willingly beneath his own, his lips lightly chapped and a lingering taste that has to be Hal on his tongue. Dirk’s fingers ghost down his chest, mapping out muscle and scars easily, though he does not linger on any long enough for Ambrose to bat his hand away. It slides lower, past his stomach and down to where his cock is heavy with need, deft fingers wrapping around it.

“I am,” he murmurs in response, lazily starting to pump his hand. His fingers are calloused, not soft as Ambrose expected. His thumb catches the head, pressing into the slit where moisture is already gathered. Ambrose hisses out a breath as pleasure jolts through him.

“Good with your hands too,” he says, distractedly. Ambrose registers quiet words being spoken to their left- David and Hal-, and deliberate, deep breathing. Strained. It’s only the desire to watch the two of them, that stops him from settling down on top of Dirk and kissing him properly senseless. Later, maybe. The night is young yet. Instead, he pulls away to sit up, leaning against the headboard with his legs slightly spread. Dirk’s hand is ceaseless. His eyes are hooded, his lips wet again.

Without much more prompting, he readjusts himself to settle between Ambrose’s legs on his stomach. His breath is warm as it ghosts against the straining flesh of his cock, doing nothing more than teasing him. Dirk’s eyes are knowing as he flicks them up to look at Ambrose, holding his gaze as his pink lips part to wrap the head of his cock in a wet heat. He groans out, the sound low in his throat.

What David had said about Dirk loving to tease is very much true, Ambrose discovers, but he is not nearly as impatient as Hal. He threads his fingers through Dirk’s hair but leaves his hand as nothing but a weight. Ambrose turns his head to the side, giving the Emperor a slight smirk. The other man’s eyes are dark with want, and there’s a tangible weight to his gaze as he drags them over Ambrose’s body, from head to right where Dirk is running his tongue along the vein on the underside of his cock, making it twitch eagerly. David’s focus lingers there for a moment, not that Ambrose can blame him.

From this angle, he has a limited view of what is Hal is doing from his own spot behind the Emperor- all he can see is the slow, deliberate movement of one hand on David’s cock, the thumb rubbing mercilessly against its weeping slit. But he can assume that whatever the other hand is doing suits just fine, given the way David is flushed right down to his chest, slightly crooked teeth sinking into his soft lower lip to suppress any noises.

It’s easy to lean up and kiss him, even if Dirk lets out a mildly disgruntled noise at being jostled. Ambrose pats at his head in a silent apology, but his free hand cups the side of David’s face, surprisingly rough with stubble. The kiss is a clumsy one, but there’s no denying that it’s due to David’s eagerness and relative distraction- it doesn’t even take a second before he’s sliding his tongue into Ambrose’s mouth, a moan muffled against it.

“Look at him go,” Hal comments.

“If we were just the excuse so he could do this, he really should have just kept the man to himself,” Dirk agrees, amused. He’s pulled off to answer, and Ambrose instantly misses the warm suction from his mouth. His voice is all too even for someone whose mouth ought to be otherwise occupied.

“As the man in question,” Ambrose interrupts, “I wouldn’t have appreciated the pretense.”

“As the honest man in question, apparently,” Dirk murmurs.

“Who would have thought, in this den of liars?”

“Says the snake slithering through the grass.” Dirk has a sharper tongue than Ambrose might have expected, but this is banter born of familiarity. He wonders if Dirk ever speaks to David like this, but he doubts it.

“I’m offended,” Hal says, very clearly not offended. He turns to address Ambrose. “You should shut him up before he keeps trying to win this argument, by the way. He’s too stubborn to see he’s on the losing side.”

“Your ability to disconnect from reality is truly astounding,” Dirk answers. David mumbles something unintelligible against his mouth- probably a complaint of some kind.

“Enough, both of you,” Ambrose says, his voice sharp. He’s mustered up the old authority that had his former soldiers straightening instinctively, when he was a feared commander, before he would fight in games for entertainment. Unsurprisingly, neither of them seem to bat an eye at it, though Ambrose chooses to believe this is due to their own insolence (Hal) and general inability to be impressed (Dirk), rather than any fault of his own.

Surprisingly, though, David shudders noticeably at the tone, a renewed flush spreading across his cheeks. His eyes are wide and dazed, and unbearably aroused. Ambrose doesn’t attempt to hide the smirk that curls across his lips.

The other two exchange a look over David’s back, but nothing more is said. Dirk dips his head lower, and Ambrose lets out a low, appreciative groan as his tongue begins to work at his cock again. Less teasing this time, too- Dirk takes it into his mouth proper almost immediately, lips sliding down half the shaft in a tight seal as he sucks. It’s sinful how good he is at it, and how little he protests when the hand in his hair tightens and Ambrose starts to move his hips.

Dirk meets his gaze almost smugly, and swallows him down to the base in a single, smooth motion. Ambrose’s head falls back to thud against the headboard, and he lets out a ragged breath, his toes curling in pleasure. He’s vaguely aware of David’s moans growing louder, of Hal murmuring something to him in soft, fluent Latin, but Ambrose’s focus has largely narrowed to Dirk and the wet heat of his mouth as he fucks it.

“Just _look_ at you,” he hears David rasp out, low and damn near reverent. He turns to look at the Emperor, who is still red-faced and panting, whose cock dark with want and wet at the tip, neglected as Hal continues to tease him. “Hah…told you. Told you he was good.”

“Look at _you_ ,” Ambrose returns, his voice rough. “He’s got- two fingers in your ass and you’re shaking.”

“Three,” Hal corrects with a wink. “Soon to be four. He needs the extra.”

Dirk hums in agreement, even as he pulls back so his lips are only just wrapped around the head. Ambrose shudders, teeth sinking hard into his lower lip to muffle an undignified whine. It’s not entirely audible, but Dirk’s gaze is all too knowing as he parts his lips, letting Ambrose see his tongue flicking against the slit, lapping up pre gathered there.

“Gods,” Ambrose gasps out, the word slipping past gritted teeth. Dirk just raises an eyebrow, slim fingers wrapping around his cock to give it a slow stroke.

“Never took you for a devout man,” he says, the slightest grin tugging at his swollen lips.

“I’m not,” Ambrose manages, once he’s caught his breath. He’s torn between waiting and yanking Dirk’s head right back down.

“Hal’s nearly finished getting him ready, I think. And given that he’s clearly the main attraction for you, I figured you’d rather not come in my mouth. Or all over my face.”

Ambrose’s cock twitches at the thought of thick ropes of white landing on Dirk’s freckled cheeks, the slope of his nose, the curve of his upper lip.

“I _am_ finished. Efficiency is important,” Hal grumbles. “But so is teasing our dearest Emperor until he’s as desperate as the most wanton whore around. And that’s saying something, with Dirk here.”

Dirk gives Hal a sour look, but Ambrose largely ignores it. Hal was right- David is panting with a desperation that doesn’t suit his station at all, his arms shaking and his lower lip red from where he’s been biting it. A frustrated whine leaves him when Hal withdraws and circles around to Dirk, and his eyes find Ambrose’s, wide and pleading.

“Come here,” he orders, his own voice surprisingly even. “You want it bad, you’re going to need to work for it. I bet you’d like that, bouncing on a barbarian’s cock.”

Hal makes a quiet, approving sound as he tugs Dirk away, and David doesn’t even hesitate to straddle him instead. He can’t quite meet Ambrose’s eyes, his head bowed and his brow furrowed in focus as he lines them up. Ambrose hisses out a breath when the sensitive head bumps against his ass, even that friction almost too much to bear after so long without.

But it’s simultaneously better and worse when he finally slips in, the tip going from cool air to warm, slick tightness. David’s eyes flutter closed, his fingers curling into fists as he starts the slow, tortuous slide down. Both of them are panting by the time David has taken it all, his thighs shaking as he’s settled in Ambrose’s lap.

His hands find the Emperor’s hips to steady him, and Ambrose rocks his hips up with a ragged groan. It’s so _much_ after Dirk’s teasing, to go slow is an impossibility. But it’s a blessing that David seems to feel the same way, taking that as a cue. He rests his hands on Ambrose’s chest for leverage, palms splayed over scars and nails digging in slightly, and starts to move.

The pace is still slow at first, as they both grow accustomed to the position- there are a few long, terrible moments when David pulls too far up and his cock slips out-, but it’s not long at all before David is riding him hard, skin slapping against skin. Ambrose is entirely unable to keep his groans to himself, and it’s a relief when he leans up to kiss David in an effort to muffle them and the man eagerly kisses back. He’s tangentially aware of Dirk and Hal’s presence, but with David here as a warm weight on his lap and pleasure coiling low in his gut as he thrusts shallowly into him, there is little else that he cares to focus on.

“Really- really just was an excuse to get into bed with me,” he murmurs against David’s mouth. “Did you want this that badly?”

“Y-es,” David gasps out in return, his eyes squeezed shut. He clenches tight around Ambrose, a shaky moan leaving his lips. “Fuck, yes, so good, knew from the minute I saw you in the ring-,”

“Surprised you even waited this long,” he teases, dipping his head to sink his teeth into the side of David’s neck. There’s a certain pleasure to be had in sucking a dark, obvious mark into the skin there, leaving the Emperor something to remember him by.

“We are, too,” Hal chimes in, his voice suddenly close. “It’s a miracle he hasn’t had you fuck him right there on the sand.”

“I’m sure David would love having all his subjects watch him get fucked within an inch of his life and still beg for more,” Dirk says, a little more distant. The talk must be something that they do often to indulge David, who lets out a very obvious moan at the image it conjures. “But then they’d all know what a miserable slut their Emperor really was.”

David lets out a sound that’s nearly a sob, his face twisted in need. A body moves closer, pressing against his side as he drags his teeth across the line of David’s collarbone. Soft fingers graze at his jaw, dipping under his chin to guide him into a kiss- one Ambrose resists only for a moment. It turns out to be Hal that doesn’t so much kiss him as try and claim his mouth, his teeth catching Ambrose’s lower lip with a pleasant sting. Another pair of lips brush against his shoulder, a narrower chest pressing against his back and arms wrapping around his waist.

It’s a moment of unexpected tenderness, made more potent by the fact that Ambrose cannot remember when last he felt anything like this.

A hand slides over his own, and it nearly startles him. But he doesn’t have long to dwell on it, because it’s guiding his own further up, sliding along David’s smooth chest to rest just on his throat.

“Go on,” Dirk says- and it would be Dirk, wouldn’t it?- breath fanning against his ear. “He likes it, and you know you want to.”

Ambrose doesn’t ask how Dirk knows, or why he’d think that; he just complies with a slow, deliberate squeeze to restrict David’s breathing. The Emperor of Rome’s throat, in his hands. He can feel the other man’s pulse thudding heavily beneath his fingers.

David groans, his eyes half-lidded when Ambrose turns to meet his gaze. He’s damn near enchanted by the sight of his nostrils flaring almost uselessly, his eyes blown wide and mouth open. He’s so obviously enjoying the vulnerability, the risk. Ambrose wants to leave fingerprint bruises on his skin, and he squeezes hard again, choking off a cry.

Dirk is strangely tense behind him, but Ambrose is too distracted to register it properly. He’s stopped kissing Hal, and the other makes his displeasure about that known by biting down harshly at the join of his neck and shoulder, making him jolt at the unexpected flash of pain. Ambrose grunts in protest, narrowing his eyes. It isn’t enough to make him bleed- at least, he doesn’t think he’s bleeding-, but he catches Hal rolling his eyes before he slips further away.

The pressure at his back vanishes; out of the corner of his eye, he can see him and Hal tangled yet again, this time with Dirk settling on top of the other, keeping his wrists pinned above his head. Hal is watching them, his eyes bright and intent. Ambrose just smirks over at him, snapping his hips up sharply. His grip on David’s throat is loose, and the moan the Emperor lets out is startlingly loud in the room- it had been quiet, but for heavy breathing and quiet groans, and the sound of skin hitting skin.

“C-lose,” David pants out, his voice breaking on the word. It’s hoarsely spoken, accompanied by David squirming almost desperately in his lap, his cock bouncing in thin air.

“Not yet,” Ambrose tells him, breathy. “Not until I’m done, hear me?”

David doesn’t manage a verbal answer, just whines low in his throat, his chest heaving. He’s the picture of desperation, and Ambrose only leans forward to trail kisses and bites down to his chest, his tongue flicking against the hardened buds of his nipples in turn. He bounces almost frantically on Ambrose’s cock, one hand now on his shoulder and the other fisted tight in his hair.

Ambrose still has a hand around David’s throat, and when he exerts pressure, the Emperor pushes back into it, almost as if he was begging for more. It is something that he’s more than pleased to grant, the thrill of it surging through him. His cock throbs inside him, and Ambrose feels his climax building and building. It doesn’t take much longer before he’s coming with a strangled groan, his fingers tightening as he fills David up.

The other man offers no protest, moaning in appreciation instead. He even keeps grinding against him, milking out every last drop until Ambrose is nearly shuddering, overwhelmed by pleasure just bordering on pain. His hand falls to rest on the mattress, limp.

“Et contentiones sint.”[2] Ambrose registers the words as a soft murmur that barely pierces the haze of bliss. It’s a bone-deep contentment that leaves him unwilling to move, even as David continues to move above him.

“Please,” he hears the Emperor whimper. Ambrose groans quietly at the sound; were he not entirely spent, it’d be enough to urge him on further.

The sheets shift and rustle beneath him, and he watches both Dirk and Hal move closer, the two of them rosy and slightly sticky with post-orgasmic bliss. Ambrose is almost sorry that They ignore him entirely, with Hal only ghosting his fingertips down Ambrose’s stomach until he can wrap his fingers around David’s swollen cock.

The Emperor hisses out a breath, his length throbbing noticeably at just the contact. Ambrose watches, entranced, as Hal begins to stroke him. The pace is quick and unforgiving, David canting his hips forward to fuck into his fist. Dirk draws him into a kiss, which is slow in comparison, all lazy satisfaction from the younger’s end as David pants wetly into his mouth. There are tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, Ambrose notices. Sluggishly, he reaches a up to brush them away.

David is so wound up that he comes undone with the barest swipe of Hal’s thumb against the raw head of his cock, a loud cry leaving him. His back arches as he clenches tight around Ambrose’s softening length still inside him, making him bite back a cry of mingled pleasure and pain. Ambrose feels the warm splatter of it hit his chest and stomach in thick ropes, and then a finger dragging through it, smearing it against his skin.

Hal withdraws his hand, unceremoniously wiping it on Ambrose’s thigh, but he’s too wrung out to protest. David collapses on top of him, near boneless and still panting heavily, his eyes closed.

“Fuck,” he says, breathless. Ambrose huffs out a quiet laugh, nodding in agreement. Anything else is too much effort.

“Eloquent as ever,” Dirk murmurs from somewhere to his left. The bed creaks as weight shifts, and there’s the soft sounds of bare feet on the floor. Ambrose just continues to stare up at the ceiling, feeling David’s hair tickle at his nose, the other man’s breath fanning against his neck.

“Shut- shut up,” he grumbles. Petulant, but endearing. There’s a spill of Latin after that, one that Ambrose is too tired to parse through. Evidently the Emperor is recovering much faster than he is- or simply better at running his mouth.

The next few minutes pass in a blur of slowly mounting exhaustion as the energy that sustained him first through the fight, then through this, ebbs away. Ambrose registers the press of a cool, wet cloth to his forehead. It feels heavenly. There’s more speaking, voices pitched in a low whisper that would normally raise his hackles. David’s weight rolls off of him, the cloth travels lower.

He’s only barely awake as someone (Dirk? David? Surely not Hal, it’s too gentle for that) wipes him down. Three bodies drape themselves around him in a tangle of arms and legs afterwards, and Ambrose doesn’t fight it, his limbs leaden and sore in the best ways possible. His last thought before sleep claims him is that he ought to win another fight soon.

_coda_

Ambrose wakes in the morning to find that David is still curled against him with Hal a warm weight against his other side, their legs tangled together. Sunlight streams through the window, and he can see Dirk’s lone silhouette in the courtyard through the gauzy curtains.

It is not a bad way to wake up at all.

* * *

Latin Translations:

[1] [“And where is the Prince?”  
“He’s sleeping. Tired.”

“You know how things go.”

“I took it upon us to make sure we wouldn’t be interrupted.”

“Good boy. Now be good to my favorite barbarian. He’s earned a reward.”

“Yes, I have. Now, the bed.”]

[2] “Selfish.”


End file.
